Went to Brighton yesterday en famille. I realised I hadn't left the city in far too long, and announced to B and S after playgroup that we were off to the seaside.
I know Brighton's a city too but on a perfectly still and blue late spring day, you could be on the Med. And I love all its idiosyncratic barminess. The grandeur and the gaucherie. And that West Pier looming out there, a monstrous memento mori.
I can't believe some people actually still want to restore the thing. I suppose it was socially significant, but look at it. It'd take more than a lick of paint, and there are worthier targets for resurrection. It's hardly as worthy as the Grand Hotel - famously rebuilt after the attempted assassination of Mrs T - which is now fated to gaze out at its remains for eternity, or at least until the next bomb/fire/storm. Perhaps the Grand should have been left as a monumental reminder of the futility of terrorist acts, or of the hatred Thatcher inspired among her enemies. You decide.
Spike and B had a good time too and we were all tired and happy when we got home. (S didn't quite make it to bed before exhaustion rattled him into panic, and it took a while to quiet him...) Just what the doctor ordered. Even a hilariously poor and expensive supper in a restaurant called Nia hadn't put B off her stroke, and she's already planning our next excursion. Hard to beat Brighton when it's on form, though.